Meet Sherlock Holmes
by sherlockediam
Summary: Meet Sherlock Holmes, a deaf consulting detective. Meet now John Watson, a CODA who falls into the detective's life by accident. Being that John is the only one Sherlock actually trusts, things get complicated... as expected. John/Sherlock Slash!Fic
1. Chapter 1

_Reviews are appreciated, any questions feel free to ask. I don't know BSL, ASL only, and I know there's a huge difference so my database is restricted to google. I'll probably be keeping the sign descriptions vague for that reason. Thanks so much for reading._

Sherlock Holmes was a fussy child, a fussy baby. His father was a doctor and was never home. His mother was a socialite and found herself often far too busy for her two sons. She had a home birth with both boys, her husband doing the delivery. They probably would have noticed that Sherlock was different if he'd had regular checkups, but his father always performed the jabs and the once overs. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock was a normal boy.

It was Mycroft, however, who noticed something was different about his baby brother. Mycroft, who was six, nearly seven years older than Sherlock, noticed when the young thing began to crawl, began to get into things, that something was off.

Sherlock never smiled. He stared, intently. He cried, a lot, much more than normal. Mycroft was a genius, Sherlock was something above that, something new. Mycroft noticed that when Sherlock at age nineteen months was able to mimic Mycroft at writing a few letters when Mycroft was home for Christmas holidays.

At nineteen months, however, Sherlock was still not talking. He had mastered the art of facial expressions, and mastered the art of getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, sometimes on his own, sometimes by having a tantrum. Mycroft realised then, that Sherlock was probably deaf.

Mycroft conducted a series of experiments on his baby brother, between sound and vibration, and came to the conclusion that if Sherlock had any hearing at all, it was minimal. It was probably genetic, Sherlock had never really been sick or injured.

He told his father and mother over dinner that night as Sherlock sat at the table in his chair, his chubby hands feeding himself with relatively little mess, watching his parents, his brother, converse in a way he probably never would. His eyes were narrow, sharp and blue, and studying something that he simply could not understand.

"He can't hear us." Mycroft was not one for mincing words, even at eight years of age. "He's deaf, you know."

His mother dropped her spoon into her bowl of soup. His father's hand froze half way between his plate his mouth. Mycroft deduced that his parents were in shock simply because their son's condition had been so plainly obvious, yet neither one of them, the doctor or the socialite, had bothered to notice.

"Charles... do you... you don't..." Mycroft watched his mother gasp, her eyes welling with tears. Mycroft knew perfectly well his mother was not sad, but embarrassed at the thought of her son's future. All those signs he might have to learn, people staring. Would she have to learn sign? What would her friends think of her? How would they understand?

"I'll take him in to the clinic tomorrow for a hearing test, Amelia, don't fret," Charles said soothingly.

Through the rest of dinner, no one spoke a word. Mycroft watched with interest as their parents tried to prove him wrong. They created noise in all directions to see if Sherlock would notice. The only time he did was when the noise caused a vibration he could feel. Even then, he didn't look at the source of the noise, but the place on his body where he'd felt it.

Mycroft tagged along to watch the hearing test, his father didn't deny him that. His father was hoping that Mycroft might become a doctor one day, too. It was a quick test. There was a little wire that was inserted into Sherlock's small ear. It measured the response of the inner ear to sound.

Mycroft could tell from his father's face that Sherlock had failed the hearing test miserably. Mycroft mused that the hearing test was probably the only test Sherlock would ever fail from this day forward.

"Stay with your brother," Charles demanded and went off to his office to make a series of phone calls.

Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor, his blue eyes staring up at his older brother. He squatted down in front of the toddler and raised his hands. Mycroft knew no sign language at all, but that didn't matter. He made a gesture with wiggling fingers in front of Sherlock.

The child stared at it, and with precise dedication, mimicked it perfectly. Mycroft smiled and shook his head. Even at such a young age he knew, Sherlock was going to be one of a kind.

"Speech therapy," was the first thing Amelia Holmes said when her husband told her. Her face was firm, her arms crossed. "Deaf children can learn to speak, can't they?"

Charles Holmes licked his lips and sighed. "Some can."

"There are schools he can go to, right?" she pressed. "We need a better nanny. Charles, I can't handle this!"

Mycroft sat on the floor next to his baby brother, watching the small boy with messy black curls attempt to take apart Mycroft's old microscope. He was nearly succeeding. "We could all learn sign," Mycroft said quietly. Mycroft wanted to learn sign. Mycroft wanted to learn everything, much, like he suspected, his little brother would.

Charles and Amelia stared down at their oldest child. Amelia looked horrified, Charles looked impressed, as he usually did every time Mycroft opened his mouth to say something. "We need to decide what the best course of action will be for the boy."

The best course of action for Charles, it turned out, was to die. He had been drunk when he was coming home two years after they learned their youngest child had about ten percent of his hearing, with hearing aids. He was walking, he didn't want to drive and hurt someone. He didn't think about the other cars not paying attention to the darkly clad, wavering pedestrian wandering about the streets.

Dead on impact, the officer told Mrs Holmes as she sobbed into her sleeve. Mycroft was away, Sherlock was home, but he was only four, and he still didn't speak. He was watching his mother with wide eyes, curious, detached from the situation because no one explained to him what was going on. He tugged on her sleeve but she pushed him away.

Charles could communicate with the boy. They hired a nanny who could sign, despite Mrs Holmes' pleas to find a nanny who could teach the boy to speak. Charles acted like the interpreter between mother and son, and Sherlock lost all concept of her as a mother by the time he turned four.

Mycroft signed as well. He rather liked the idea of a secret language that none of his friends at school understood. He was brought home immediately upon learning of his father's death, and as sad as he was, he knew that life always ended in death, whether it was sooner or later.

He explained the situation to his little brother. 'Father has died.'

'Why?'

'Because that's what people do, in the end.'

Sherlock's little brow furrowed. 'What if we love them?'

'It doesn't matter,' Mycroft's hands stressed to the boy. 'People die, whether we love them or not. It's best not to let yourself love them too much. When they die, they stop, and we keep going. Why hurt if you don't want to.' Mycroft knew Sherlock wouldn't understand what he was trying to say, yet, but he also knew Sherlock would take those words with him in the end, and eventually he'd understand.

Amelia Holmes sent Sherlock to a special school after that, and rarely extended the invitation to come home. Sherlock spent a lot of time alone. He was with Deaf children now, but he never really fit in. When he was eight he mastered speech therapy, even if he wasn't good at it, it wasn't something he found particularly useful in his world. Everyone in his world knew how to sign, why bother having to pay attention to the way people moved their mouths, guessing sounds he'd never hear.

Still, it made for a more pleasant holiday experience when he did have to go home, which was usually just during summer, and only then so he could make his mother pay attention enough to provide him with the most basic things.

Sherlock was a curious child, but detached. He was fickle, and liked things a specific way. His mother put him into grief therapy when he nearly hit her with a vase he chucked when she threw away some old chemistry texts that Sherlock had dug out from his father's old book collections. She insisted something was wrong with him.

The therapist, who did not sign, had trouble communicating with the boy. When Sherlock felt the therapy session was going no where, he'd sit on the sofa and close his eyes. Eventually Amelia stopped taking him.

One summer, when Sherlock was thirteen, Amelia and her boys were invited to a cousin's wedding being held in Paris, at the Louvre. The wedding spared no expense, the boys wore suits tailored to them. Amelia left Mycroft strict instructions to keep an eye on his brother at all times. Sherlock had the worst habit, which only grew as he aged, of wandering off on his own and fiddling with things.

The boys sat through the painfully long ceremony well enough, but Mycroft grew bored with his brother, and had decided to pursue a rather attractive blonde from the groom's side of the family while the musicians were setting up for the reception.

Sherlock watched with curious eyes as a violinist, a tall man with stark black hair greased back, pale skin and very dark brown eyes, plucked the strings on the instrument and then drew his bow across. Sherlock had seen a violin before in passing, many times, but had never given it much thought. It wasn't even the violin that held his interest as it was the way the man held it, as though it was a sentient being, capable of pain if mishandled.

Sherlock approached the man and reached out while the man was playing, laying his fingers on the wood near his chin. The vibrations were so intense, Sherlock jerked his hand away, as though he'd been burned. The man, who had been so caught up in the music, was startled to feel a hand tug at his instrument, but instead of being cross when he looked at the boy, he smiled.

"Hello there," he said to Sherlock. "Do you play?"

The man had an accent, one Sherlock hadn't worked in in speech therapy. He was fair with French accents, Italian and passable with Spanish, but this one was different.

Sherlock raised his hand and signed to the man. 'I don't understand you."

The man's eyes flickered to Sherlock's ears, where the small, but conspicuous pieces of plastic and wires, sat, tucked just beneath his curls. "Ah," he said. "Guess not."

Sherlock caught that, and deduced that the man had asked him if he could play the violin. "Never tried," Sherlock said. He spoke carelessly when he did bother to speak at all, and while he was understandable, Sherlock didn't bother to make himself sound like other people sounded... or at least the way his speech therapist told him other people sounded. Other people were boring. Speaking was dull. What was the point, anyway? You could say so much more with your face, with your hands, speaking was just... stupid.

The man, surprising Sherlock deeply, held out the violin towards him. "Want to?"

Sherlock's fingers itched, they stung, with desire to touch the violin. Sherlock wanted to learn everything, to know everything, to do everything. He reached out, his long fingers careful, persistent, and he took the instrument from the man.

Grabbing the bow with a sort of curious abandon, Sherlock dragged it across the strings several times until the wincing man, with a huge smile on his face, stayed Sherlock's frantic hands with his own. He held up a finger, asking Sherlock to wait, and then grabbed a violin from a fellow musician who was standing near by.

Catching Sherlock's eye, he gestured for the young boy to follow his motions. Seeing as Sherlock could imitate almost anyone and anything, at everything, he was able to, with little effort, produce a sound better than most hearing children who had been playing the instrument for years.

This only lasted for a few moments when a red-faced, heavy-breathing Mycroft, looking rather fat and irritated, rushed over. He snatched the violin from Sherlock's hands and shoved it at the musician. "I'm so sorry. He doesn't really know any better. He's just..."

"He's fantastic," the man said, making sure he was looking directly at Sherlock. "He's deaf, yes?"

Mycroft nodded. "As a post. Were you mocking my brother?" Mycroft's tone had gone from apologetic to accusatory, suddenly afraid that someone was trying to make a spectacle out of his brother, giving a deaf kid an instrument.

"Your brother has... well an ability that most people don't," the man said.

Sherlock couldn't follow what the man was saying, however he did quite enjoy the look Mycroft was getting on his face. It was the look Mycroft often got whenever someone was praising Sherlock's talents.

'Let's go,' Mycroft's fingers snapped at his brother.

Sherlock turned back to the man and with a grin, signed, 'Thank you,' with a wide, sweeping gesture, attempting to encompass just how much thanks he had for that stranger.

When Sherlock told his mother, with Mycroft interpreting, of course, 'I want to play the violin,' his mother laughed at him. She was drunk, tired, and lonely, and the idea of a deaf child playing the violin was laughable to her.

Sherlock was frustrated. He tried to explain to her that he could play, he liked it. He heard it his own way and it was soothing. She just kept laughing and shaking her head and drinking, and eventually Sherlock started screaming, as loud as he could, wickedly enjoying the look of horror on her face at the guttural, deep sound he made.

When she stopped laughing and started crying, Sherlock crossed his arms and said aloud, "I want a violin."

Mycroft bought him one, of course. How could he not. As upset as he was with Sherlock's behavior with his mother, he had heard his brother play. He had watched his brother accurately mimic every move the violin player had made. Although the sound Sherlock had produced was muted slightly, from having never played before, the notes were nearly identical. Mycroft just could not say no to that request.

Sherlock took up lessons. Non traditional, of course. His teacher was a woman, older, happy. She and her husband, who was always away, lived on Baker Street, renting out the flats in their building. Mrs Hudson was her name, and she took care of the building while her husband spent most of his time in the States taking care of business matters.

Mrs Hudson had played the violin as a young woman, and had offered to teach Sherlock after she'd seen the boy and his brother picking out his instrument at a shop up the street. She found it facinating that the little deaf boy was taking up music like that.

"Oh it's not uncommon," Mrs Hudson told Mycroft as they watched Sherlock hold the violin up, touching the strings, examining the bow as though it was something under a microscope. "Deaf people play music all the time. Beethoven, of course, though he went deaf well after he had started composing. But it's no different, I'd imagine, than teaching a child without hearing difficulties. He seems to be a smart boy, anyway."

"Too much so, for his own good," Mycroft said sullenly. He was always in a bad mood now, Mycroft, seeing as his diet was rigid and what he really wanted to do was wash his hands of his brother and possibly take down an entire cake by himself.

"Have him come by my flat Thursdays, and we'll get started," she said and reached out to pat the boy on his head.

Sherlock, who rarely liked to be touched, simply smiled at her and signed a thank you while trying to balance the violin and bow between his shoulder and neck without using his hands.

'Stop that,' Mycroft insisted. 'It's going to break.'

Sherlock grinned as Mycroft paid and he was nearly skipping out of the shop with his new prize tucked under his arm.

The birth of Sherlock's music passion was probably the last thing that went well for Sherlock Holmes that year. He did do lessons with Mrs Hudson, every Thursday, for about nine months. Then, one day, Sherlock Holmes returned from school, eager to get started on a particularly interesting science project that was going to be due after the holidays, and he found his mother laying dead on the sofa.

Her skin was quite grey, her hair flacid, her mouth open, eyes bugged out. She had choked, Sherlock noticed, from the trail of left-over vomit leaking out of the side of her mouth. He touched her, inspite of himself, and she was cold, stiff. She had been dead for a while, but not an entire day.

Sherlock stared at the phone in the corner of the house. He couldn't use it, his mother had never agreed to set up the particular device that allowed the deaf to communicate over the telephone. He sighed, feeling sick. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn't just leave her there, dead.

Mycroft was supposed to be home, too. Mycroft was at University but his last letter told him Mycroft would be home on the first day of the summer hols. Sherlock stared at his mother's dead body and tried not to cry. His mother had never liked him. She had never connected to him, never bothered to care about who he was, or learn to communicate.

She was still his mother, though, and she was laying dead on the sofa, and Sherlock knew why. There were pills, prescription pills, in the traces of vomit. He could see the half-digested capsules laying on the floor after they'd dribbled out of her mouth. She had taken them with wine, the empty glass on the table.

The pills hadn't killed her though, the vomit did. Her body couldn't digest them, it tried to expel them, but she was too drunk, too unconscious to move, so she choked, and died.

His hands were trembling and he slid down the wall, unable to take his eyes off of her. Mycroft would be home soon, was the only conscious thought in his brain. Sherlock, being young, being so separate from the rest of the world, knew what happened, but couldn't figure out what to do after he had the answers.

So he sat. He didn't take into consideration that Mycroft, who really didn't want to be home in the first place, decided to delay his trip a by two days. It was Mycroft that found Sherlock, still sitting in the parlour with the dead body that had begun to stink. Sherlock, who had moved to drink and relieve himself, but sat in that spot, knowing only that it was the best spot for Mycroft to see him when his brother came home.

'I waited for you. I couldn't ring anyone,' Sherlock signed feebly.

Mycroft's face was drawn, hiding his own horror that his baby brother had been trapped in a house with a dead body for two days, unable to ring anyone, the police, himself, because of his mother's refusal to accept that her younger son was deaf.

'Why didn't you go next door?' Mycroft asked his bother as the pair went upstairs to get Sherlock bathed and changed. The entire house, including Sherlock's clothes, had begun to smell of rotting corpse.

'I don't know.' It was the most honest, and frankly the only answer, Sherlock had for his brother.

Mycroft was angry. He wanted to hit Sherlock for being so dense. He wanted to hit his mother's dead body for being so selfish. He wanted to lay down, like a child, and cry because now Sherlock really was his responsibility. Now he must play parent to a deaf, socially awkward, teenaged boy who really just needed some parents.

Mycroft did the only thing he really could do. He sent Sherlock off to school, avoided him as much as possible, and when he did have to see his brother, he put him on menial case-work, as he was currently interning at the Department of Defense where he was likely to enter into a rather successful political career.

Sherlock was lonely as a teen. By the time he was sixteen he was drinking quite a bit. No one talked to him anymore, even the kids that got picked on avoided him. Sherlock was no stranger to confrontation, either. He picked fights, he insulted the other kids at the school. He used his superior intelligence to make others feel stupid, and it felt good.

Sherlock was angry. He was alone, and he was angry, and he hated his parents for being rubbish, and his brother for showing him that he was smarter than the rest of the kids. He thought about Mrs Hudson every now and again, though he'd stopped going over there the summer his mother had died. Mrs Hudson had treated him like a normal human being, like he was smart, but fallible, like he was capable of loving, and being loved in return. No one had ever made him feel like that before, or since.

Sherlock was seventeen the first time he tried cocaine, and eighteen the first time he jammed a needle full of heroine into his veins and let himself collapse on the floor with the absolute pleasure of being outside of his mind and outside of his body. Where he could look at things and they wouldn't be numbers and statistics and information. In this state people weren't just a list of what they had done, and what they were about to do.

By nineteen Mycroft had lost all track of Sherlock, and every now and again bothered himself with looking for his brother, but he knew. Last time he saw Sherlock he'd seen the track marks and the dark circles under his eyes, and the shabby state of his dress.

Mycroft knew, but he was so damn busy that Sherlock just had to stop mattering to him. It wasn't until Mycroft got the phone call that Sherlock was in the hospital, nearly dead from overdose, that he realised he had failed his brother. He had let his mother win, he had stopped caring about the little freak.

Mycroft waited until visiting hours were well over before he showed his badge to the staff and went in to see his brother. Sherlock looked rather pathetic in the bed as he laid there, surrounded by monitors and wires and beeping things.

He was sallow, too-thin, malnourished. His arms were bruised, one of them infected but not enough to cause alarm, luckily, because his hands were how he communicated. His ears were naked, probably having sold his hearing aids for another fix.

Sherlock coughed, but didn't open his eyes as Mycroft stood over the bed and stared down at his brother. "I blame myself," he said, and looked at the door, wondering if maybe he could just wash his hands of this whole mess and flee. Sherlock would die, eventually, and then Mycroft would really be free of it all.

Instead he took a seat next to his brother's bed and held his hand until he, too, had fallen into the black of unconsciousness. It was Sherlock who woke him the next morning, tapping him roughly on the head.

Mycroft snapped his head up and squinted blurry eyes at his brother. Sherlock tipped his crooked fingers toward his mouth, asking for a drink.

Rubbing his eyes, Mycroft looked around and found a small pitcher of tepid water, and an unused glass. He filled it halfway and handed it to his brother. Sherlock drank it down and let the cup tumble from his weak hand, onto the bed.

'Are you happy with yourself?'

'I'm coming down,' Sherlock replied with very weak, sloppy signs. 'Want more.'

Mycroft, against better judgment, called the nurse who gave Sherlock another dose of medication for the pain. Sherlock let out a breath and closed his eyes. There would be no more questions for the moment.

Mycroft couldn't stay... or rather, he wouldn't stay, not when he was signing Sherlock into rehab against his will. Sherlock was unconscious when the decision was made, and Mycroft heard Sherlock caused such a fuss he had to be sedated and transported under restraints.

Rehab lasted a year and a half, and Mycroft never visited. He sent emails, sent Sherlock a mobile with some decent texting options to help for those with hearing impairments. He sent him a new set of hearing aids, which Sherlock sent back with a note that said, 'Piss off.' Mycroft smiled at the fact that Sherlock had kept the letters and the mobile. There was hope for him yet.

Sherlock eventually became sober. He sent Mycroft a letter saying that he no longer wanted to die, which in his way was a thank you, Mycroft supposed. Sherlock went off to University, where several paid students provided Mycroft with regular updates. At first he had the students attempt to be friends with Sherlock, but after repeated complaints that Sherlock would hit them, hard enough to crack ribs and break noses, Mycroft accepted information from them as they watched from afar.

Sherlock did good. He excelled in all of his classes, despite not being well liked by any of his professors. He had interpreters but rarely paid them any attention, and very often completely ignored them. He obtained several degrees in record time.

Sober and educated, Sherlock finally received his inheritance that had been denied him while he was using and acquired a flat, and with some convincing, met a contact at Scotland Yard who Sherlock knew simply as Lestrade, or his given sign name, the sign for the colour grey.

Lestrade was crap at BSL, and even more so in speaking slow enough for Sherlock to understand him, but the emails were punctual and efficient, and after Sherlock solved three cold cases in two days, Lestrade kept his number for texts on his speed dial.

Sherlock wasn't friendly, the others at the Yard hated him, mostly for the fact that he was so good at what he did, but also because they didn't understand him and when human beings don't understand something, they tend to dislike it. Sherlock wasn't there to make friends, however, and that was fine.

Sherlock was fine alone. He was detached, often accused of being soulless, inhuman, psychotic. He was none of those things, he simply was more attached to himself, his violin and his deductive reasoning more than anything else. Anything else, that is, until Dr John Watson walked into the lab one day, handed over his mobile and gave Sherlock a sad, but definitive smile that Sherlock hadn't seen since the days of violin lessons with Mrs Hudson.

John Watson was a game changer, and Sherlock knew that, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Sherlock's smile was genuine.


	2. Chapter 2

_So this part is shorter, but it just sort of worked out that way. I'll update as soon as I can. Hope everyone is enjoying this story!_

John Watson was born six weeks premature. His entire life he would hear the story about how the doctor told his parents that his situation was very delicate, and if they gave him too much oxygen, he could go blind, but if they gave him too little, he may become brain damaged.

John Watson's parents were both Deaf. They came from a long line of Deaf relatives, it was a genetic condition, one they assumed they would pass on to their children. John Watson's parents didn't want a deafblind child, so they went with less oxygen.

Luckily for John, he was a fighter, and he survived. When he was four weeks old, the doctor told his parents they could take him home. They also told them that their son, John Hamish Watson, could hear.

John didn't remember the looks his parents gave each other when they got that news. There had only been two hearing children born to any members of the family they knew of, and those hearing children were born to distant cousins. John's parents had been Deaf children, of Deaf children, of Deaf children.

He was too young to see his father put his arm around his wife and sign to her, 'It's okay. He's our son and it's going to be okay. Maybe they made a mistake.'

It wasn't that his parents disliked the hearing, or that they wouldn't love their son. On the contrary, John's parents loved their boy very much. They were, however, terrified. Terrified that they would never relate. Terrified that their son would never fit in, because CODA kids didn't often fit in. CODA kids didn't belong in either world, really, and Mr and Mrs Watson didn't want that for their son.

Harriet, John's sister, older by nearly six years, was hard of hearing, but not deaf. She spoke, she was the spokesperson for the family when they had to go out to places where people didn't sign, where they didn't understand what it was like to be Deaf.

Harriet immediately hated her little brother when she learned he could hear, not because he could hear, but because it meant he was different, and Harriet, oh she wanted to be different. She didn't want to be the spokesperson of the family. She didn't want to tell her parents yes, when they asked her if she would help John learn to speak.

John's parents didn't quite know what to do with him, and in the end, they didn't really do much at all. John was a fussy baby, but they never really noticed. He was fed on a schedule, and when he woke in the middle of the night wet and hungry, no one responded to his screams.

John learned to self-soothe at a very early age. His parents watched him for signs of brain damage that the doctor warned them of, but John was a healthy boy, and smart. By the time he was a toddler, he seemed to prefer not to speak at all, and most people didn't realize the boy could hear.

It was only when his parents had to make the choice for him to go to a hearing school, that John realised how different the world was around him. People moved their mouths and made sounds, and those sounds were words. And people didn't express enough on their faces and John was just so confused all the time. He didn't understand intonation when someone was asking a question, he didn't understand most of the sounds that all of the letters made. He could spell, but he didn't hear sounds in his head, he saw hand shapes.

When he spoke, he spoke like a Deaf person. Slurred, missed letters, impatient. He didn't like it. The words choked him, got caught in his throat, made him so angry. His speech therapist nearly gave up on him until one day, he came in and he just sort of... had it.

The therapist would take credit, but John was tired of getting punched and kicked and laughed at by the other boys. He hadn't really understood the words, but he understood the fists, and the finger pointing, and the laughter. John locked himself in the library, took a book he had been able to read since he was three, and began saying the words over and over and over, until his throat was raw, his tongue was sore, and until he sounded just like the angry woman was trying to make him sound.

He didn't tell his parents when he came home for the holidays, and they didn't ask. Harriet, however, knew. She knew that he'd figured it out. He knew he had figured out that he was special, that he was different than the rest of the family. Some people in the outside world would think of him as better, more whole, complete, even.

It didn't matter that John didn't see himself that way, or that his parents saw him as far more broken than she was. What mattered was that John was probably going to take a wife and bring home grandbabies for their parents to fawn over, and Harriet would be alone, ugly, and angry.

John was eight when that happened, Harriet was fourteen, and she was drunk. She'd stolen some of the Christmas party wine and helped herself in her bedroom before she confronted John.

'What's up?' John asked as she walked in.

She was swaying on the spot, and she slammed his door behind her. She reached up and turned her hearing aids up and she smiled, drunkenly, meanly. "Special boy," she slurred, her eyes nearly crossed. "Look at the special boy. Let's hear it, Johnny. Let's hear your voice."

"Harriet," John said, a word he had practiced over and over, afraid he would never really get it right. How could he be sure, really, that his parents really intended for her name to sound that way. Her sign name was the sign for jam, the sign name she'd had since she was a baby, one their mum couldn't bring herself to let go of, or change. The word Harriet and the word Jam just wasn't enough of the same to make John happy.

"There it is," she said and stumbled forward. She raised her hands to sign, and then laughed and dropped them. "Don't need it now, do you? Your hands."

'Why are you angry?' John signed. Harriet reached forward and slapped him, hard, and it shocked him into instant silence. John backed up but Harriet came forward and slapped him again and again. He felt his skin sting and start to swell. The skin near his lip broke and he tasted blood. She kept hitting him until he fell and covered his face, yelling, "Please stop! Please!"

"They can't hear you, idiot," she spat at him and backed up. "If you tell them I did this, I will kill you."

John believed her. When his mother demanded to know what happened, John lied and said he'd fallen outside on the ice. The look on his mother's face told him she didn't believe him, but she didn't question him any further. John had never lied to her. Ever.

John went off to school the moment the holiday was over, a bit bruised, but hurting more on the inside than on the out. No one asked him about his marks, no one really cared. John was the weird kid, the one who preferred to talk with his hands and his expressions than his voice. He was the kid who still hadn't quite gotten the intonation of a question right.

He didn't want to come home for the Easter hols. He wrote his parents and begged to stay, but they insisted. They had family from all over Britain coming in, he needed to show up, and please be careful, John, no more bruises. Just watch your step, his mother wrote to him.

John was petrified. He spent most of the holidays in his room, hiding from his sister, hoping she would just leave him alone. Easter Sunday she pushed open his door and gave him a wicked look. She was drunk, but not impossibly so... yet.

She tossed him a wink. "Embarrassed to be seen with us now that you've figured out you're hearing?"

'I'm just tired,' he signed back to her.

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Stop signing, you twat. You don't deserve to. You don't belong here and you know it. They all talk about you when you're not in the room, and you'll never know because if you can't see it, you can't hear it. They all talk about how sad your life is because you shouldn't be here." Harriet reached up and tugged one of her hearing aids out of her ear. "At least I can do this, and I can fit in. Go away, Johnny, no one wants you."

John swallowed thickly. He wanted to, at the moment, he wanted to go far away from her, and from them. He wanted to, because she was probably right. He'd seen the looks his aunts and uncles and distant cousins gave him when he was in the room. They'd sign their hellos, and my aren't you growing so fast, and you look just like your dad, but in their eyes was pity.

He hadn't realised that he didn't belong, but when Harriet told him so, it made sense. He didn't bother to look at her again and eventually she left, slamming the door behind him. She spent the rest of the holiday trying to torture him with loud noises. Putting the telly on full blast when he was sleeping, switching all the radios on at full volume. She even produced an air horn which she used on him while he was in the shower, causing him to startle so badly he slipped and bashed his face on the side of the tub.

His parents had noticed that one, and chastised their daughter, but not too hard. She was just playing pranks, John insisted and though his mother looked concerned, she let it drop. She allowed John to stay at school, though, until summer.

When John was ready for University, he was absolutely ready. He loved his parents, they were great, but they had done little to nothing to prepare him for the actual world. He was angry, angry with his sister for being such rubbish. He was angry at his parents for not noticing enough, not spending enough time telling him that no matter what their lives were like, it simply was okay for him to hear.

His anger drove him to the Army, and while his mother cried, Harriet got drunk, beat him up, and then whispered that she hoped he would get shot before he had the chance to come home again. He wondered what Harriet would do if that actually happened, but honestly he did want to make it through without any major casualties.

When John joined the Army, he decided to train as a doctor. It made the most sense, and he was very good. The country was at peace then, and he trained for years, mainly at St Bart's, and he made some real, actual friends, had a girlfriend, quickly realised what he wanted was a boyfriend, and then had a few of those.

John was never really happy, but he was the most at peace he'd ever been. He wasn't normal, he didn't quite fit in, but he wasn't apart from the world anymore, either. Harriet wrote him the few times she landed herself in rehab. She was sorry, she was trying, she'd met a woman named Clara, and Clara was great. Clara was hearing, and their parents loved her, and they were getting married. She was sorry for all the times she made John feel like he didn't belong in their world.

John burned the letters that Harriet had sent him. Time had gone by, many, many years, but the pain wasn't any less. John wanted distance from her, from that world. Once, when John was doing rounds at the hospital, before he was shipped off to Afghanistan, there was a deaf man in one of the rooms waiting for test results.

A pretty nurse ran up to John with a grin. "Rumour has it you speak sign language," she said and then explained the situation.

John stared at her, and he wasn't sure what made him say it, but he looked her straight in the eye and said, "I don't know sign language, you have your facts wrong."

She was flustered, but she apologised and rushed off to find someone who did know the language. For the first time John felt free of that world, the world of the Deaf where he didn't belong, and while he didn't belong in the world of the hearing, not really, he belonged in his own world, and in his own world, he had control.

He didn't, however, had much control when he was shipped off to the middle east and subsequently shot. The bullet went through his thigh, and a second through his shoulder. The one in his thigh shattered his femur, dusted part of it.

He was in the hospital for six weeks in Afghanistan before he was well enough to be shipped back to London. He received a second surgery when he got home, and attempt to screw what remained of his femur to a titanium rod in hopes that he wouldn't lose the leg.

Six months he spent at a rehabilitation centre, his leg immobilised, transported from place to place by wheelchair. John was angry, but he never complained aloud. He never told anyone how much it hurt, how he could feel the rod inside of his leg, how he just wanted it to stop. Take the damn leg, he'd think some days when it was just too much to bear.

He narrowly avoided a Percocet addiction. Instead he focused on slowly working his leg until he was able to actually get better.

"You're going to limp," the doctor told him after his final x-ray. It had been two years since the bullet tore his life apart, "probably for the rest of your life. You lost about an inch and a half of your height on that leg, and likely you're not going to get it back."

"What about that damn rod?" John asked, wiggling his foot, imagining he could still feel the titanium fused to his bone. The x-rays showed that John's femur had regrown around the titanium rod, and it had gotten to the point where John could walk on his leg, with the aid of a cane, but no more wheelchair.

"That's yours now, for life," the doctor said. "We'd have to re-shatter the leg to take it out, and in the end you'd probably lose it, and all your hard work would have been for nothing."

John wasn't sure why it bothered him so badly that he was going to be part metal for the rest of his life. He sighed, but accepted what the doctor said, and used his new cane to walk out of the rehab center.

He spent another year in a half-way house for Army veterans who were recovering from disabilities. Most of them were amputees. One of them was a blind guy, who was disgustingly optimistic in John's opinion.

He was learning to read Braille and use a cane. He had a guide dog on hold, as soon as he could master a few other skills that would allow him to live on his own again. One drunken night the two of them ended up having sex in John's bed, and John mused what the sex might have been like had he been born Deaf, as his parents intended.

John moved out the next day, and didn't say goodbye to the blind man. He knew it probably hurt, but it would have hurt more if John opened his mouth and told the man he was using him because he wanted to know what it was like to fuck a blind bloke. It was only a half truth, but John was still angry and it was the cruel half that would have come out.

It was by chance John had run into an old Army friend in the park a few weeks later. He was staying in a dirty old room at a hostel, while he tried to figure out what he could afford in London, which wasn't much at all. Harriet was drinking again, going by Harry now, and she'd left Clara. She tried to insist John move in with her, as a way to make up for all the years of torment, but John couldn't bring himself to accept it.

He accepted the gift of her old mobile, however, because John had no real money to speak of, but he was determined to make it. When he saw the fat version of his old friend, he tried to ignore him, but the man persisted.

They got coffee together, John ordering his scalding hot, and he rather enjoyed the way it burned his tongue as he took large gulps. "Who would want me as a flatmate?" John answered the question that had been asked.

The man's face split into a grin. "That's the second time I've heard that today."

John felt uncomfortable, petrified, but curious all the same. He knew his friend, he knew that look, and he knew something was about to change for him. He didn't think he'd be meeting a tall, lanky, gorgeous man, who was looking for a flatmate, and absolutely stone deaf.


	3. Chapter 3

_I mentioned before this will be a slash story, but it might take a little bit of time. I plan to go through each episode a bit, but instead of retelling them, sort of coast over the action and show the in-betweens that the boys share. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter. Up next will be the Blind Banker adventure._

John didn't know what to expect when his friend brought him to the morgue lab, but it certainly wasn't the tall, curly haired man with piercing blue eyes, who immediately demanded a phone in sign language.

"You know what he's asking for?" John's friend muttered to John.

"I think he's asking for your mobile," John said with a shrug. John, in fact, knew exactly what the tall man was asking for, but deaf or not, John still wasn't ready to take a step back into that world.

The man patted his pockets in an exaggerated fashion and then said too loudly, "Sorry, don't have it."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes and fished out his mobile, walking it across the room to the other man. He tapped him on the shoulder and handed it over.

The man, nameless to John still, signed 'Thank you' and then began rapidly texting. He then looked at John out of the corner of his eye, and signed, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

John almost answered purely out of shock that the man, a perfect stranger, could know. He stopped himself just short of a finger-twitch and then said, keeping his words clear, quiet and concise, "Sorry?"

The man looked at him, a smirk on his lips, an eyebrow quirked. He raised his hands and fingerspelled the names of both cities. John continued to stare blankely, so the man gave a sigh and said, "Afghanistan or Iraq? Which one? You're a soldier, obviously, Army doctor. You're wounded, which means you've been near gunfire recently, not likely in any hospital in Britain, so I'm asking which one."

John gave a little cough of surprise and then said, "Afghanistan. How did you-"

"Never mind that. Thank you for the mobile," he said, handing it back. "The address is 221B Baker Street. I'll be there round seven, please be prompt."

John was facinated with the man, absolutely facinated. The way he spoke, as though he literally knew everything in the world. John hadn't seen him for more than a second, yet somehow the man knew that about him. "What's 221B Baker Street?"

'Flatshare, obviously,' he signed swiftly, 'and you're pretending you can't sign, which I don't understand but suspect you will tell me later.' The man then said, "Army pension doesn't pay a lot, obviously you need a flatmate. I was telling your friend over there that I was looking myself, and must be extraordinarily difficult to find a flatmate for. Now here you are. So again 221B Baker Street."

"Flatmate? I don't even know your name, we know nothing about each other, and yet we're to share a flat?"

"I wouldn't say that," he said and picked up a coat with a long, sweeping gesture, flinging it over his shoulder with a sort of dramatic twist to his body. "Army doctor, shot, healing well enough for your therapist to think your need for your cane is psychosomatic. You've got a brother, one you don't get on with, possibly his divorce, possibly his drinking. I think that's enough to be going on, yes?"

John simply stared in amazement and looked back at his friend who chuckled and nodded. "Yes. He's like that all of the time."

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," he said and then raised his hand, making the sign for Otter, which John assumed was his name sign, and he suppressed a chuckle because he could actually see it. "Gotta run, left my riding crop in the mortuary." He smiled a half smile, winked, and swooshed out the door with a coat twirl to rival that of Alan Rickman's portrayal of Severus Snape.

John stood there, muted, eyes wide, and wondering just how that man could see straight through him as though his mind were made entirely of glass. He turned to his friend and with a weak shrug, accepted the offer to at least look at the flat with the tall, very intimidating, deaf man.

It was five minutes to seven when John's cab pulled up in front of Baker Street. He was alone, so he decide to knock on the door when a second cab pulled up and Sherlock Holmes swooped out. He gave John a tense smile as he walked up to the steps.

'C.O.D.A.' he fingerspelled.

John rolled his eyes and realised there was no pretending with this man. "I prefer not to sign."

'Show me your name, please,' Sherlock signed.

John hesitated and then lifted his hands and made the sign for hedgehog. His face was bright red, it was the sign his aunt had given him when he was four and someone in the house had made the comparison, and it just sort of stuck. He imagined it was probably a lot like Sherlock's Otter, but that didn't lessen the embarrassment.

Sherlock's lip twitched but he didn't make fun of John right then. "Abusive parents..." he said slowly and then shook his head. "Your brother, he's deaf and you're the only hearing child in your family, is that right?"

"One of three, but the other two are distant cousins I've never met," John said.

"I'm the only deaf person in my family," Sherlock said.

"Probably explains why you're so good at lipreading. How did you know about my family?"

Sherlock smirked and instead of answering John, opened the door to the building and let them in. An old woman came out of the downstairs flat and met the pair with a grin. "Sherlock, how lovely. This must be the doctor you were telling me about?" Without waiting for an answer from Sherlock, the woman grabbed John and hugged him tightly.

It was the first time someone had touched John with genuine affection in years, and he had to force himself to keep a straight face. "Pleased to meet you," John said.

"Sherlock tells me that you're the child of Deaf parents, is that right?" Mrs Hudson signed and spoke.

John pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes, yes that's right. I would appreciate that Sherlock keep that to himself," John said, punctuating that Sherlock keep it to himself by signing the last bit.

"Well the flat is right upstairs. Sherlock's already moved his things in. I wasn't sure if you two'd be needing two bedrooms, so I've left some linens for the bed in the cupboard by the bathroom just in case."

"Of course we need to bedrooms," John said as he climbed the stairs slowly, his leg aching.

"Oh well I didn't want to assume," Mrs Hudson said as Sherlock swept into the other room without a word. "You know Sherlock, so fickle, never know what that boy is up to in his life."

"Actually I don't know Sherlock, I've just met him today," John said.

"And you're moving in," Mrs Hudson said with a half smile.

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," John replied crossly.

"But I don't doubt he will be moving his things in soon," Sherlock said, standing in the kitchen doorway. "I play the violin, a lot, and loudly... or so I've been told. I also ramble a lot, signs and aloud, especially when I'm working. I have very little patience for the quirks of the hearing, so if you find the telly too loud, please don't bother me with it, just turn it down yourself."

John sighed and looked around. The place was a mess, a huge mess, actually. Books and papers, beakers and microscopes, three laptops, clothes and scarves littered every spare bit of space and furniture. There was a skull on the mantlepiece, and there was a television, but a heavy ran coat covered most of it.

Still, the place was large, the location was fantastic, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't be offering him the room if the rent was out of his price range. John scratched the back of his head. "This could be quite nice," he said to himself.

Sherlock grinned. 'I agree. I'm quite happy here.'

'And if you wouldn't mind tidying up a bit...' John signed to him.

Sherlock pulled a face and attempted to right a fallen stack of books, and kicked a couple of used button up shirts under the sofa, giving him a grin a bit like, 'Ta-da' and opened his hands.

John shook his head, but let it go for the moment. More pressing matters were at hand, because right then a police car showed up and a tall, grey-haired man waltzed in and, in all honesty, changed John's life forever.

John hadn't really bothered to guess what Sherlock had done before this moment, but if he had, based on the microscopes and weird specimens all over the kitchen, and the work in the mortuary lab, he would have guessed Chemist. Researcher, analyst, something along those lines. He would not, under any circumstances, have guessed that Sherlock Holmes worked with the police.

The night was like a whirlwind of chaos, from Sherlock having overly-loud rows with other officers, to standing over the dead body of a woman, a name scratched into the floor, poisoned by the look, and suicide by circumstance. Sherlock, of course, was in his element. Turning this way and that, seeing everything as a list, a deduction, and he had all-but solved the case before John could get past the fact that the woman had asphyxiated on her own vomit.

Frustration was putting his feelings mildly when he was forced to hike down to the main road to catch a cab, and furious was the next step up when he was forcibly escorted by a strange car to an empty building where a man, tall, too- thin like he was ill or had over-dieted, holding an umbrella, waited.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" was the first question he asked.

John, while curious, was agitated. He didn't know Sherlock Holmes at all, he was tired, sore, and frankly all he wanted to do was tell this man to piss off. Instead he said, "I don't really have a connection to him."

"You just met today, and already you're moving in together and solving crimes. I expect we'll all receive the happy announcement by the end of the week."

John couldn't help the blush, and he looked away. "Who are you?"

"I see you don't deny there is some attraction there," the man said with a small, thin smile. "Mind your feelings, Dr Watson, for Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a heart. Not really, not outside of his wardrobe, his work, and making other people feel small next to his over-active brain."

John shoved his hands into his pockets. "What do you want?"

"I want to offer a monthly stipend, something to help ease your way," he said and pulled out a cheque book.

"What for?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet, of course, just let me know what he's up to."

"Why? Why him?"

"Because I worry about him, constantly. I'm the closest thing he has to a friend, Dr Watson."

"Which is?"

"An enemy. His arch-enemy, he calls me. Such dramatics. What do you say?"

"I say fuck off," John snapped. "I'm not interested."

"Such loyalty, so quickly. That's dangerous."

"May I go now?" John asked.

The man shrugged and after some parting warnings, John was back in the car, on his way to Baker Street. When he told Sherlock of the man, Sherlock merely shrugged and told John not to concern himself with such trivial matters. That man, he said, while dangerous, didn't matter. What mattered were the suicides. Mostly, Sherlock explained, because they were murders.

Hours later found them sitting in a restaurant, John eating, Sherlock staring out the window, thinking. Occasionally he'd flick his fingers, signing to himself, shaking his head, and then he'd go silent again.

'What are we doing here?' John signed to Sherlock after getting his attention.

'Watching,' Sherlock replied, his hands limp and lazy. 'I'm thinking, there's a connection but... I can't see what. Yet.'

John sighed and then tugged on Sherlock's sleeve again. 'How did you know about my parents? About my family? About me?'

Sherlock smiled a little, his lips stretched and tense. He pressed his palms together, tucking the tips of his fingers under his chin and leaned forward to speak. "Your limp was clearly caused from a bullet wound, which told me Army. You mentioned having trained at St Bart's to your friend, which drew me to the conclusion that you were an Army doctor. Army doctor, wounded, that leaves two likely places you'd been. As for your family, what you forget is that you grew up in the world of the Deaf. You're one of the only people who speaks with expression. You raise or lower your eyebrows with questions, even when you're thinking you express it on your face. When you're not paying attention your hands form signs, showing me that you aren't deaf but you grew up with sign as a major part of your life. Your resistance, going so far as to lie about knowing how to sign shows that you were likely the only hearing child of a Deaf family. The mere mention of your brother's name and your face grows dark, the marks on the phone he gifted you shows he was a drinker, and probably angry, and probably at you when you were a child, and now his wife. Have I got anything wrong?"

John stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar. "That was... that was amazing."

Sherlock sat back and smirked. "So I was right?"

"I was wounded a few years ago in Afghanistan. I didn't learn to speak until I was sent to school, and even then I was in speech therapy for years and years because I prounounced my words the way a Deaf person would. Harry was angry at me for being more special, and took it out in me with fists. We don't get on, we never have and probably never will. Harry tries to make up for it, but due to the drinking, can't be trusted."

'I hadn't expected to be right about all of it,' Sherlock signed with a rather pleased look.

"Harry," John said slowly, "is short for Harriet."

"Sister!" Sherlock exclaimed too loudly. "It's always something."

John would have gone on, but just then Sherlock had a realisation about the case, and suddenly the pair of them were outside. They were running, Sherlock was babbling, effortlessly switching between speech and sign. John's head was spinning, and for the first time in a long time, he was excited, and he was laughing.

Even when they arrived back at their flat, grinning at each other, and Sherlock informed John that he'd gone all that way without his cane, John wasn't angry. Even when Sherlock suddenly disappeared, and John raced through London, tracking him desperately, finally shooting the murderer right before Sherlock put the pill on his tongue and swallowed, John wasn't angry.

When they ran into the mysterious man from the empty building and John learned it was Sherlock's brother, he was actually amused, and realised he was not surprised at all. He rather enjoyed watching them fight through sign, faces screwing up with annoyance, hands slapping, feet stomping.

In the end John and Sherlock went home, and the night quieted down. John was on the sofa with tea, Sherlock was at the window with his violin, and John was utterly unsurprised that he was really, really good.

'Do you ever get lonely?' John asked him as he started to feel sleepy.

Sherlock stared at him for a long time. 'What do you mean?'

'You said so yourself, you're married to your work. Doesn't that get lonely? Do you ever crave human company?'

Sherlock sat back and crossed his arms. "Are you gay, John?"

John rolled his eyes. "I said before, I'm not chatting you up."

"I'm aware. I'm still asking the question."

"Yes," John said finally.

Sherlock visibly relaxed. "Often my life is lonely, yes. Were you anyone else in the world, I wouldn't have admitted such a thing. You're the first person who has ever looked at me with absolute honesty and told me that I am fantastic. You're the first person who hasn't treated me like a freak, and for that I appreciate you. Thank you."

John was taken aback by this admission, but he accepted it, because for the first time, in the world of a deaf person, John wasn't a CODA, he wasn't between worlds. He wasn't living apart from any place. He simply existed, and he was helpful, and while Sherlock was clearly going to drive him absolutely mad, he belonged.


	4. Chapter 4

**I wanted to just apologise for how long it took me to update. RL has been ****_very_****, very unkind to me, which caused me to be late, and also rush through this chapter. I did want to address two reviewers' questions quickly. The first, someone suggested that I do retell the episodes in my fic. While I would love to, I honestly don't have the time. Fanficcing is a way of unwinding for me, so I'd rather focus on the bits that weren't in the episodes (y'know like the slash :p) so as much fun as it would be to write an epic retelling of each episode, I just don't have the drive to do that. And the 2nd- I do know that there is no sign for 'otter' in ASL, and I couldn't find any reference of whether there was or wasn't one in BSL, however for fiction's sake let's say there IS one (and it's terribly cute) because it's a little shout-out to the memes suggesting that Benedict Cumberbatch looks like an Otter (and Martin Freeman looks like a Hedgehog).**

**Anyhow, here is the next installment. I honestly didn't care too much for The Blind Banker episode (I love them all, but it's one of my least favorites) so I ghosted over A LOT of the episode in this because I didn't much care for the story, but there were some good places to start introducing the Slash. I hope you all enjoy it and thank you to every single person who has reviewed!**

John had grown up in the world of the Deaf. He had been a part of it as much as any hearing person could have been. He knew the quirks, he knew the temperaments, the impatience that the Deaf had for the hearing most of the time. He knew the expectations, and the communication, so when he agreed to try out this strange, awkward flatmate/friendship with Sherlock Holmes, John thought he knew what to expect.

He was wrong, of course, very wrong, and learned that right away. Sherlock had warned him of a lot of things beforehand, and stupidly John thought some of them were jokes. The part where Sherlock had told him to expect various body parts in the fridge- he thought that was a joke until he had gone to the kitchen one morning for juice and had been confronted by a decaying, severed head. Another time when he mistakenly pulled out a jar of eyeballs instead of olives had been another moment of fright, and a bit of disgust.

The other things John realized were next to impossible weren't the things one would need to get accustomed to living with a Deaf person normally. While yes, often the telly being too loud, or the radio blaring, or Sherlock's banging about the kitchen during his working experiments were things John expected, John hadn't expected that Sherlock didn't sleep. Or that he really didn't eat much at all. That he worked on constant over-drive all the time. He hadn't realized that Sherlock really was that moody all of the time, or that he never let anyone even try to get on with him at all, and the only people he did tolerate, himself and Mrs Hudson, were only treated minimally better than the rest of Britain.

John also hadn't really thought about how agreeing to work with Sherlock would often leave him painfully without money, because while Sherlock seemed to have an abundance of it, being the assistant to a consulting detective didn't pay well- or didn't often pay at all. Sherlock didn't receive a stipend from the Yard for his work, and because he often deemed most cases "too boring" he'd turn away perfectly capable paying clients because he couldn't be bothered.

It was when John's card was declined at the market when John realized that while he couldn't do anything about the fact that his flatmate was insufferable, he could at least get a day job, one with flexible hours because he knew that Sherlock wouldn't let him get away for work often. But John was a doctor, for God's sake, there had to be a place for him somewhere.

That somewhere happened to be at a GP's office right round the corner from the flat, and one that only needed him two days a week. The doctor doing the interview was quite pretty, too, and was obviously chatting him up, which John had no trouble exploiting for his own purposes.

"Well overqualified or not," she said, once they had negotiated hours and pay, "it'll be nice to have a fresh face round here. Maybe we can have lunch some time and we can talk."

John smiled and nodded, and made some sort of half-agreeing gesture before he excused himself from the office and went home. Sherlock was in the kitchen taking a tissue sample from a severed foot and squashing it onto a slide.

'Employed?' Sherlock signed sloppily with one hand while the other was mashing down the skin with the top piece of the slide.

John grimaced and stood opposite Sherlock at the table, trying not to look at the rather foul smelling body part laying haphazardly next to his discarded breakfast tea. 'Yes, two days a week, not too bad. Pay is okay.'

Sherlock looked from John's hands to his face and gave an audible sigh. "If you needed money you should have asked."

'I'm your flatmate, not your kept man,' John signed, irritated. 'I still don't understand why you want a flatmate anyway if you don't need the money.'

"When I don't have company," Sherlock said as he very carefully started to push the slide under the microscope lens, "I get a bit off, and everyone suffers. It's just hard to have one stick round for longer than a week or two." Sherlock's eyes were glued to the microscope, so John knew conversation was over for now.

He tried to ignore the smell, put the kettle on and grabbed a package of jammy dodgers, settling in front of the telly while Sherlock worked away. After a bit, with his tea and biscuits firmly digesting, John felt a little better, but remained confused about the strange man he was living with.

Sherlock was intense, that was for sure. He had no concept of personal space, or personal anything. John had caught Sherlock taking his things all the time without asking, cutting up his shirts for "experiments" using up his tea for "staining things", waking him at all hours of the night to talk to him because he was either "bored" or "needed to work something out". He often gave John the impression that he was interested, too. He relied on John for almost everything, and anything, and his stare was intense. When John attempted to go out on a date, or even down to the pub for a drink alone, Sherlock would sulk and be nearly impossible until John returned home.

John, however, after being rather unceremoniously shot down the first night be brought it up, never took up the subject again, but that didn't stop him from wondering, or from fancying Sherlock, in a weird, infuriating way. It was complicated, but then again John's life had always been so damn complicated, and he never really expected his love life to resemble anything traditional.

A few hours later, Sherlock was dragging John to the bank after John implied that he might need to borrow money after all, since his account was painfully empty and he wasn't starting work for at least two weeks. Sherlock hadn't even paused when John started to ask, and before long they were in a cab speeding down the street.

Of course when they didn't end up where John thought, he was confused until they were being led up to an office on the sixteenth floor. 'Translate, please,' Sherlock signed to him.

Sherlock didn't ask this of John often. John had never been great at interpreting from BSL to English, he had a hard time making his brain separate the grammar and syntax from Sign to English, and often sounded like an idiot when trying to, but since Sherlock didn't ask often, John agreed.

The man inside the office was tall, a bit on the portly side, hair poorly dyed, huge patches of grey missed by the stylist. He wore a rather posh suit, and the office was decorated with impeccable, modern taste. The man was sitting behind a desk, one foot kicked up on it, his chair pushed back to the window and he had a rather lazy posture.

John watched Sherlock's eyes flicker up and down the man. Once John asked Sherlock what he saw when he looked at people, and Sherlock told him, "I see a list of everything that makes them who they are." John wondered what that would be like, but he didn't envy Sherlock, and often it was disconcerting that Sherlock could see everything about him.

"Ah, Sherlock, old man!" he said, reaching across his desk to shake Sherlock's hand. "New terp, eh?"

John translated that with some disdain, while Sherlock signed and John said, 'This is my friend, John Watson.'

"Co-worker," John clarified with sign and speech.

Sherlock paused, giving John a hard look, and John saw something flicker behind his eyes, but only for a moment before it was gone and Sherlock's deductive stare was back.

"Sherlock and I are old friends from Uni, aren't we, eh?" the man said, talking at John instead of talking to Sherlock.

"You were friends but you never learned to sign?" John asked.

The man laughed. "Ah, could never really be bothered, Sherlock never cared."

John felt his face grow hot with irritation, but after a moment, the conversation went straight to business and within a few minutes, Sherlock and John learned that there had been a break-in with nothing stolen, and what this "friend from Uni" really wanted to know was, how did the person get in. There were no alarms tripped, no entrance or exit possibilities seeing as they were on the sixteenth floor, and in the end, nothing was taken.

Money motivated John, the game, the chase, motivated Sherlock, who immediately began snapping photos, and hopping about the floor like a jungle primate. In the end, John took the cheque from the man, Sherlock took the photos and they were out.

'You said you didn't have any friends,' John insisted as they got into a cab.

'He's not a friend, he's a joke. He and his mates treated me like a parlour trick. The only reason I agreed to take this job was to annoy him. He thinks I can't do it.' Sherlock's fingers moved with sharp definition, telling John that Sherlock was indeed irritated by this man, but also quite determined.

The case moved on as usual, only this time John bowed out for the day to get to his new office and start getting a few things set up. This irritated Sherlock, but John wouldn't be swayed. Sherlock may not have had a problem paying John's way, but John did.

While John was in his new office setting a few things up, there was a knock on the door. Standing there was a rather youngish man, tall, brown hair, wide mouth, not unattractive by any means. He was wearing a white lab coat and one hand was shoved into his pocket.

"Doctor Watson?" he asked, his accent clearly Scottish.

"Yes, hello," John said, a little flustered. "How er... how can I help you?"

The man's cheeks pinked a little and he shifted from one foot to the other. "We didn't properly meet, my name is Andrew, I work down in the lab. I was talking with Sarah just before your interview and I... well I never do this, but Sarah hinted you might be interested so I was er... I was wondering if you wanted to maybe have dinner, or something. Food of some sort, you know... er..." He was clearly embarrassed, and John was almost too flattered.

He wasn't used to being chatted up at all, let alone by rather handsome blokes who worked in hospitals. Usually, when it did happen, it was when John was drunk enough to wander into a gay club and even then it was usually someone older, and far more lonely than this man could possibly be.

"I um, yeah I think we could maybe do dinner. Yes, yes absolutely," John said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I'll have to check my schedule, I'm sort of working two jobs at the moment, but yes. I would love to have food of some sort."

Andrew let out a sort of nervous laugh and shook his head. "I sounded like a real idiot there, didn't I?"

"Not at all. I'm really looking forward to it," John insisted.

With obvious renewed confidence, Andrew rushed forward and hastily scribbled down his number onto a blank sheet of paper. "There. You can call me whenever, I mean, I'm almost always free, unless I'm here."

John slipped the number into his pocket and responded in kind. "I'll be in touch soon," he promised. "The moment I have a free night I'll ring you."

Andrew looked positively pleased and with flushed cheeks headed out of John's office. After the impromptu date arrangement, John found he couldn't really concentrate and decided it was probably best that he go on home, since likely working on the case would distract him enough from the thrill of being asked out by someone.

On the walk, John saw an advert, a little crudely designed poster glued to the wall. It was for a Chinese Circus, and most of the writing was unreadable, but the date and time were clearly printed. "Sod it," John said and pulled out his mobile, sending Andrew a text. 'How about the circus this Friday night?'

The response was almost instantaneous. 'Pick you up at six.'

John grinned widely and had an almost skip to his step as he made it back to Baker Street. Sherlock was inside, pouring over books, trying clearly to work out the symbols they were studying. He didn't notice John for some time, but eventually looked over and frowned.

"Why are you smiling?" Sherlock demanded.

John tried to straighten his face but failed to do so. 'No reason,' he signed, not wanting to talk through his ridiculous grin. 'How is the case coming along?'

'Frustrating. If I had some idea, some sort of way to unlock this code, things would be easier.' Sherlock sighed and then grabbed John's arm declaring, "Come on, we're going out!"

It was blur of adventure after that, for John. A blur of Sherlock dragging him from place to place, finding out the symbols were numbers, breaking into a house, finding clues, watching Sherlock so damn determined to work and crack this case.

Despite his excitement for his date, John still found himself unable to stop staring at Sherlock. He was entranced by the way the man's mind worked. He was distracted so often by the long, delicate fingers that when Sherlock was signing, John would often lose track of the conversation. Sherlock was still infuriating, but John's fancy was growing and he wasn't sure how to stop it.

It got worse when they found themselves near darkened train tracks, looking for some sort of clue, some sort of anything to crack the numbers, to figure out what was going on. They had split up, which John thought was a terrible idea, but one Sherlock wouldn't be swayed from.

It was John who found the wall of symbols and snapped several pictures on his mobile before he rushed off. "Sher-" he started to shout, and then smacked himself on the forehead for being a bit of an idiot. He listened and after a moment heard Sherlock shuffling about round the corner.

John rushed over and waved at his friend. 'I found them. I found the symbols painted all over the wall.'

Sherlock grabbed John's hand, and John tried to ignore how warm, dry and comfortable it felt there. They raced down the tracks until they came to a stop in front of the wall which was now black, and reeking of fresh paint.

'Gone,' John signed angrily. 'It was right here!'

Sherlock whipped John round, grabbed him by the sides of his face and held him close. "Think John. The human brain is capable of remembering everything it has seen, but you need to tap into that part of you. Tap into it..." Sherlock trailed off.

John's breath hitched in his throat. Sherlock's face was so close to his, so close he could feel his breath, and he physically fought back the urge to grab him and just kiss him right there, propriety be damned.

Instead, with a shaking hand, John reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile and opened his photo file. "I took pictures," he said.

Sherlock slowly dropped his hands and took the mobile. "Well done," he said very quietly.

John's skin was on fire where Sherlock had been holding him, and John had to take several breaths until he was back under control. Sherlock had started off without him, so John had to keep a running pace until he finally caught up to his flatmate. Not a word was exchanged until they were back in the flat and Sherlock was working.

"Friday night," Sherlock said to John some time later. He had his nose in a book, reading intently, his brow furrowed.

John had to shake him to get his attention. "What about Friday night?"

"Keep it open."

'I can't,' John signed, not trusting the spoken word. 'I have a date.'

'Date?'

John sighed. 'Yes, a date. Where people go out, talk, eat, enjoy each others company.'

'That's what I was going to suggest,' Sherlock said, and for a brief moment, John swore Sherlock looked almost... jealous. 'I didn't know you were seeing someone.'

'He works at the hospital, he's nice.'

Sherlock's hands were still for so long, John thought perhaps he was done with the conversation. Eventually he signed, 'Right. Enjoy your date.'

John, however, did not enjoy his date. John's date was nearly killed, he was accused of being Sherlock Holmes, and in the end, while Sherlock did save their lives and all was well, Andrew was frightened off.

"You're cute, and great, but honestly John, I don't want to die for some bloke I barely know."

It was fair, and John couldn't deny him that. "I'm really, terribly sorry."

Andrew smiled and hugged John. "I guess it doesn't matter in the end. You're obviously in love with that flatmate of yours."

John's face went red. "I... no, that's ridiculous." Which of course it wasn't at all, to anyone.

"Look, if it's any consolation, the way he looks at you, he feels it, too. He just seems like the type that might take a while to get there." Andrew kissed his cheek and then he was gone.

John walked back upstairs slowly where Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his feet up, holding his violin tightly to his chest while plucking it to feel the vibrations. "Andrew isn't coming up?"

John sat down with a heavy sigh and shook his head. 'He's gone. Not really cut out to date someone like me, it seems.'

"Intelligent, attractive, and exciting? Why would you date someone so dull, John?"

John stared at Sherlock. 'You think I'm intelligent, attractive and exciting?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his violin down on the table gingerly. 'Do I need to tell you that about yourself?'

'I personally don't think I'm any of those things, but I'm okay with that,' John insisted.

He tried to sign more, but Sherlock took his hands and gave them a squeeze. John felt a rush hit him, hard, like a tidal wave. "You really are an idiot sometimes, John. And while yes, nearly everyone walking the earth right now is a complete moron, you're better than that." Then, in a gesture that surprised John nearly to a state of cardiac arrest, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "The case is over, it's time for me to sleep for a while. See you in the morning."

With that, Sherlock had retired and left John sitting on the chair, mouth agape, confused and wondering, despite how much he wanted to, how much he wanted Sherlock, if it was worth it to wait around and see if Sherlock wanted him back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. You've all been amazing! Sorry for the disastrously long wait between updates. Damn RL is stretching me thin. I wish I could write more and be more detailed, and maybe some day... though that's probably just wishful thinking. Anyway I hope you like this chapter, some Johnlock progress, I think. Next chapter will be the Irene Adler chapter and that one should be fun, full of Jealous!John :D Hope you like this update and I do hope to get another one done soon! Much love!**

He hesitated before opening the door to 221B Baker Street. John was tired, he'd been working, and oddly, attempting to work things out with Andrew. A lunch here, a nightcap there. He'd just finished at the pub with him, and although Andrew had invited him back to his flat, John declined.

"It's just not fair to him," John whispered as he touched the door handle to his building. "It isn't fair." And it wasn't, not really, because John was unequivocally in love with Sherlock Holmes, and although the sullen, childish, consulting detective had made it clear, over and over, that there was no chance, John couldn't help himself.

He listened to the soft click of the door as it opened, the shuffling of his steps as he made his way up the stairs. It was peaceful and calm. And then, suddenly, his ears were ringing from the impossibly loud bangs of gunshots going off in his flat.

Panicked, John ran into the room, reckless and stupid, only to find Sherlock shooting the wall Old West Cowboy style, a half-smile on his face. John rushed forward and grabbed the gun from Sherlock, disarming it and throwing it on the desk.

'What the bloody hell are you doing?' John demanded with shaking fingers.

"Bored!" Sherlock shouted, far too loudly. He was wearing pyjamas and his favourite blue dressing gown. His hair was a mess, his face more pale than usual. If John hadn't known Sherlock as well as he did, he might assume the man was ill.

'No good cases at all, then?'

Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa and crossed his arms. "Interesting blog, John. Pink?"

"That was your idea, remember?" John reminded him, speaking overly slowly since Sherlock's eyes were darting all over the place.

"I particularly liked the bit where you call me ignorant," he said, and there was a sharp pang in Sherlock's tone, unfamiliar to John.

'I didn't mean it like that,' John started.

"Oh no, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way," he bit.

'Will you please just-' John began, but Sherlock thew himself to the side, his back to John, making communication impossible.

"Why don't you just piss off, John. You refuse to understand the point of everything. You fill your head with rubbish, unnecessary to work, to life, and it makes it so much harder to get to the important things!"

John walked over and shook Sherlock by the shoulder, but the detective refused to be moved. Finally, frustrated and tired of Sherlock's constant berating him, he grabbed his coat and started out.

"Where are you going?" John heard Sherlock call after him, but seeing as Sherlock was still unmoving from the sofa, John couldn't answer, and instead went out, passing Mrs Hudson on the way. She reached up and gave him a swift kiss on his cheek and then was up the stairs and John was out.

He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but he honestly wasn't surprised to find himself on Andrew's doorstep, ringing the bell, despite the late hour. Andrew didn't look unhappy to see him, either, and quickly let him in and provided more beer.

After a bit, John had relaxed and was sitting, legs stretched out, on Andrew's armchair. "I really needed this, thank you," John said, tipping his fourth beer bottle at John.

"Why er... why do you move your hands like that when you talk?" Andrew asked after a bit.

John blushed and shook his head. "It's just... it's an old habit from when I was a kid." John hesitated, unused to sharing details of his childhood or personal life with other people, but decided maybe it would be okay. He liked Andrew, as much as he knew he wasn't good for him. "I grew up in an all-Deaf house."

"All-Deaf?" Andrew asked. "What does that mean?"

"It means that my family has a genetic predisposition for Deafness. Most of the people born in my family are Deaf, and I was the only unlucky one to be born with the ability to hear in generations... save a few distant cousins that no one talked to anyway."

Andrew's eyes were wide. "Unlucky?"

"Lucky, unlucky, it really depends on who you're asking," John said with a shrug. "I had to take years of speech therapy to learn how to speak properly. My parents loved me a lot, but I never really fit in their world. Now my flatmate... he's deaf, the deaf child of hearing parents. It's complicated, I sign a lot, so sometimes when I'm not thinking, I sign when I speak."

Andrew came and sat down at John's feet, putting his hands on top of his thighs. John felt his face grow warm under Andrew's touch, and he couldn't deny that he wanted more. It had been so long, my God so long, and John wanted to stop thinking of Sherlock, just for a little while, and take Andrew to the bedroom.

Andrew seemed to have the same idea when he leaned in and kissed John, softly, but most definitely not a kiss of friendship. John breathed heavily but pushed Andrew away for a second. "You remember how complicated my life is. It hasn't gotten any easier."

"I know," Andrew said. "I remember your flatmate, and I remember that your heart belongs to him. Obviously he's not taking very good care of it, seeing as you're here with me, but I'm not so foolish as to think that I can change your mind about him. And you know what, John, that's okay. Let's just be... you know... together, tonight, and won't that be enough for now?"

It was all John needed to hear, really, and the next thing he knew there was a mess of hands, and skin, mouths and simple raw need. They were first on the sofa, and then in the shower where John ached and nearly begged until Andrew brought him to bed and gave in.

They went again, over and over, hours long until John fell asleep, harder than he had in years. This night he dreamed, not of Andrew, but of Sherlock, but when he woke up, for the first time, he felt satisfied and well rested. Andrew wasn't in the bed that morning, and John heard the shower going.

He felt a bit sticky and smelled quite plainly of sex, but he didn't mind so much. He found his clothes scattered throughout the flat and eventually found himself dressed and drinking coffee in front of the television.

It was about two minutes into the news that he saw the accident. A bomb had gone off, casualties unknown, and when John heard Baker Street, he ran. He didn't say goodbye to Andrew, he simply ran as fast as he could.

He found the windows to the shared flat blown out, and the building charred, but standing. Police were everywhere, but John managed to get in the building and he found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, holding his violin, looking much as he did the day before.

John nearly dropped to see Sherlock okay. 'What happened?'

Sherlock frowned for a moment, and then caught on. 'Bomb, most likely, across the street. More warning than attempted murder, it would seem.'

'Warning?'

Sherlock shrugged and plucked a few strings on the violin. "How was your night? Andrew's, I'd imagine, judging by the smell and the state of your hair."

John blushed. "Indeed, not that it's any of your business."

Just then, Mycroft walked into the room and cast a quirked eyebrow at John. 'Home then?'

'He's cross with me, anger-sex last night I believe. Hopefully you didn't injure anything.'

John was embarrassed, but said nothing as Sherlock and Mycroft immediately started to discuss business. And it was, business as usual. Things went on, they had a case, and then another when someone started sending Sherlock messages. Someone was taking hostages, and Sherlock was solving clues, and John, of course, was acting interpreter because the hostages were calling and Sherlock couldn't hear them.

John was frightened this time, because this person was trying to get to Sherlock. John was tired, because Mycroft wanted Sherlock to stop playing The Game, and start working on his case. Sherlock refused to listen to his brother, refused to listen to John, and together they went tearing round the city, and Sherlock seemed almost mad with glee.

It got worse, however, because the bomber, Moriarty, Sherlock was convinced it was, kidnapped a blind woman and as John was translating what she was saying to Sherlock, the woman started to describe what she'd heard.

"His voice," she said and John signed.

Sherlock lunged at the mobile, grabbing it, shouting, "No, don't describe him! Just tell us where you are!"

"...it was so soft..."

The sound was metallic, and so fast John wasn't sure he'd heard it, but he knew. She was dead. Sherlock sat down hard in the chair, staring at the blank screen of the mobile. They had won, but it didn't matter, because even if they won, even if Sherlock solved it, people would still die.

Sherlock was nearly non responsive when John took him outside and hailed a cab home. It was raining, and by the time one pulled over, they were both soaked. John looked over at his flatmate. He'd never seen Sherlock shaken before, and he couldn't really describe this as Sherlock shaken, but he was affected.

He looked almost pitiful, though John would never admit that aloud. His curls were wet, soggy, stuck to his forehead. His eyes were darting all over the place, his hands restless in his lap, but his mouth was drawn and his eyebrows knitted downwards in thought.

When John looked away, a pale hand darted out, Sherlock's thin fingers closing round John's wrist and squeezing just for a moment. John locked eyes with Sherlock for that second before the detective pulled his hand away, and John fell in love with him again.

Though Sherlock's fingers were icy cold, the spot where he had touched John burned. They reached the flat and went inside to dry off. John came out from changing and found Sherlock curled up in his favourite chair, the telly on, showing a building that had gone up. Gas leak, someone was saying.

John looked over at Sherlock and shook his head. 'All those people.'

"Obviously I lost that round, although technically I did solve the case," Sherlock said aloud, his voice strained and punctuated with irritation.

John frowned at him. 'Why is he doing this? You said before the murders were arranged, and honestly Sherlock, I don't understand this. People just come to him, like booking a holiday?'

"Novel, isn't it?" Sherlock said.

John flinched. "So what does he want? Does he want to get caught? Is that it?"

Sherlock, who was staring intently at John's mouth as he spoke, got the slightest grin and touched the tips of his pressed fingers to his chin. "I think he wants to be distracted."

There was something in his voice, something wanting, desiring. John hated it, he was jealous, so jealous. He stood up and whirled round, pausing by the chair to sign, 'You two will be very happy together."

Sherlock stared after him, but when John turned his back, Sherlock stomped his foot hard on the ground. John turned and Sherlock signed angrily, 'Sorry, what?"

'Do you realize there are lives at stake here? Real, human lives? Do you care about that, at all?'

Sherlock frowned and stood, looming over John. 'Will caring about them help save them?'

'No. But you cared about that old woman. I saw it in your face when you knew she was dead.' John had hit a nerve. Raw, rare emotion flashed on Sherlock's face, only for a second.

"Yes, but I will not make that mistake again," he said in a low voice.

'And you find that so easy, don't you?' John's hands were trembling as he signed.

'Is that news to you?' Sherlock signed back, his face a mask of confusion. 'Honestly, is it?'

'No. Unfortunately it's not.' And it wasn't, not really. It wasn't news, but John was yet again forced to face the idea that Sherlock Holmes was capable of not caring about people at any given moment, under any circumstances, and that carelessness could very well easily, and expectantly, extend to John without a second thought. It hurt, God it hurt, and John wanted to vomit, or maybe cry. He wasn't sure yet which one.

Sherlock sat back down, staring at John hard. He pressed his palms together again, and cocked his head to the side. "I've disappointed you."

"Good, yes, excellent deduction," John said angrily, pointing at Sherlock. "Well done."

Sherlock was suddenly, once again, on his feet. Only this time he didn't stand in one place. This time he crossed the distance between himself and John and grabbed John by the shoulders. "Don't. Don't try and make me a hero, John. I have never been one, will never be one. Heroes don't exist."

"Some do," John said, holding fast under Sherlock's pressing touch. "Some bloody well do, but you're so caught up in winning, in The Game, that you can't see it. I've seen you do great things, Sherlock. I've been impressed by you more times than anyone in my life. I'm not asking you to be a hero, but I'm asking you to give a shit."

"Why?" Sherlock pressed. He drew even closer to John, his grip loosening, but not releasing.

"If he had me, Sherlock... If he had me would you care then? If he had Lestrade, or... or Mrs Hudson, what then?"

"Why do you want me to care?" Sherlock said, his voice suddenly angry, giving John a small shake.

"Because I..." and he nearly said it. He nearly said, 'Because I bloody love you,' but the words stopped because the mobile gave a little chirp and a buzz, and when John looked at it, Sherlock turned and saw it, too.

And it was on again, The Game, The Chase, and Sherlock was figuring things out and John was tagging a long, all the while wondering how many people might die, wondering when this was going to end. The answer, he knew, was never. There would always be something, and Sherlock was... he was Sherlock and John only mattered some.

They figured out the murder quickly, and the answer, and that the painting was a fake, and there were smiles, and someone was saved. Then they were home again, the evening was freezing, and John was blogging while Sherlock watched television.

Andrew texted, and John wanted to say no, because honestly he wanted to be with Sherlock, but everything from before was killing him slowly with each passing second of silence. He shifted in his chair and Sherlock's head whipped round to look at him.

'Going out?' he signed sloppily with one hand as the other fumbled with the remote for the telly.

'I think so, yes,' John said.

Sherlock shifted round so he was facing John, looking at him intensely. 'Are you still cross?'

John let out a sigh and shook his head. 'Hard not to be, but what's the point.'

'Back in the morning?'

'Yes, I'll bring milk, we're out.' John rose and started for his coat.

"I'll get some," Sherlock said aloud. John turned and saw from Sherlock's expression that it was some sort of misguided attempt at making amends. John knew he had to take what was given, so he nodded, smiled and was on his way.

What he hadn't expected was the cabbie pulling a gun on him and driving him to the pool. The cabbie had to be Moriarty. He was short, thin, crooked teeth, and charming in the most absolutely insane way.

His voice was soft, like the blind woman had said it was. He giggled as he strapped John to the bomb, and when he pulled the thick coat round John, he kissed his cheek and whispered, "Now this is going to be fun, Johnny Boy."

Then John stood, waiting, feeling the bomb under the coat, hearing the shuffling of the gunmen, occasionally hearing the voice of Moriarty in his ear, laughing, taunting him. "Just look at his face when he thinks it's you, Doctor. Just look at his eyes."

John thought Sherlock might not come, but that was a silly thought. Midnight struck, and the doors opened, and Sherlock's voice rang out, echoing over the tiles. Then John stepped out, hands in his pockets like instructed and he told Sherlock everything Moriarty was saying.

"I bet you never expected this," he said tonelessly.

Sherlock was too far to see his mouth, and John hoped that because of this, Sherlock would realise it was suspicious. "What are you saying?" Sherlock asked as he walked closer, moving slowly.

John hoped that Sherlock would never suspect him, but there was confusion, doubt in his eyes. Moriarty laughed in his ear. "He invited me to this meeting, and look at that face. That sad face. My God. He's heartbroken. Time to show the goods, don't you think? Show him your new evening dress, won't you?"

John was still talking. "What shall I make him say next?" And he opened the coat and there was the bomb and it all became clear.

The next bit was such a blur that John hardly remembered it. Moriarty came out, he danced with Sherlock, their words danced back and forth. John thought he had Moriarty once, when he grabbed him and told Sherlock to run, because it seemed the thing to do.

John was in love with a man who could never love him back and really, it was the least John could do. End his suffering, end this madman, and Sherlock would go and eventually forget John. How it should be.

But in the words of Moriarty, "Oops! You've rather shown your hand there."

They did almost die, John was sure of it. Because it wasn't going to be that easy. But Moriarty was gone, Sherlock was holding John up as his knees nearly gave way, and the bomb was off his body and on the ground.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock breathed.

John nodded and tried to regain his composure, but couldn't. He sank to the ground, one knee up, and Sherlock knelt down beside him. "What you did then... with um... that was um... it was good. It was stupid, but it was good."

"Right well, I'm good and I'm stupid," John said with a laugh.

Sherlock reached out and touched John's shoulder. "In case you were wondering, I cared."

John stared at him. "Sorry?"

"I cared," Sherlock pressed. "You had the bomb and you were wondering if I would care. I did. I wasn't... caring isn't easy for me, but John, you matter."

John's face grew hot and he wanted to just kiss Sherlock, consequences be damned, but suddenly they were covered in little flashing red lights and Moriarty was back and Sherlock was suddenly pointing the gun at the bomb and John knew that this was probably the end.

Of course when Moriarty honestly left, again, John was glad to have been absolutely wrong. In the cab home Sherlock took John's hand and held it, and when they got up to the flat Sherlock made tea and got John a blanket on the sofa and they sat, shoulder to shoulder, saying very little.

When the sun started to peek round buildings, John realized he was going to have to sleep, and he turned to tell Sherlock that. Sherlock was staring at him, and had been for some time. John shifted and opened his mouth to talk, but Sherlock kissed him.

It was so fast that John thought he may have been hallucinating it for how tired he was, but when Sherlock pulled away, he kept John's hands in his. "You were going to tell me that you loved me."

John swallowed. "I... I wasn't sure what I was going to say."

"You're a terrible liar."

John smiled and shrugged. "Maybe so."

"I've never loved, John, not really. When I thought you might die, I realised I would not live without you. I realised that you're important to me, and I don't know if that's love, but whatever it is, I need you here."

John let out a breath and his whole body sort of relaxed all at once. He felt like he was falling as Sherlock shifted him to lying down and John realised he may as well just sleep there. Suddenly it all made sense, and suddenly he felt like he had purpose there and as his eyes closed, not really aware of Sherlock was looking at him or not, he whispered, "I was never really going anywhere."


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for the long delays between chapters. I knew the chapter with Irene was going to be longer because a lot of the "episode" was going to have to be re-written. I hope you like the changes I made, and the extra long chapter. I have a massive deadline coming up, and a vacation so the next chapter might be quite some time. I apologise in advance for that, but again I appreciate and love EVERY review. Fanfic is my stress-release from life, and your comments make it worth it! Much love to all of you!

John, of course, hadn't expected to find himself carted off to Buckingham Palace, although living with Sherlock for these few years, not much surprised him anymore. He couldn't say, however, that seeing Sherlock sitting on a sofa, surly, naked save for his bedsheet, wasn't a surprise.

'Do you have pants on under there?' John asked, thinking that even the gentle touching of his hands during signs sounded loud in that parlour.

Sherlock gave a very slow shake of his head. He looked at John, John looked at him, and they laughed. Their giggling fit was only interrupted by the sight of Mycroft, scowling, disapproving, arms folded, face pinched.

'Is there any chance the two of you might grow up?'

John snorted and shared a look with Sherlock before responding, 'We solve crimes. I blog about it, he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out much hope.'

Sherlock shifted the bedsheet enough to free his hands but stay decent. 'What do you want, Mycroft? What are we doing here? I was in the middle of a case.'

'In the middle of a case, via laptop, naked?' Mycroft asked, his mouth twisted into a sneer. 'This is far more important. Please, put your clothes on.'

Sherlock eyed the pile of clothes and shoes on the table, stared at Mycroft hard, and then turned his head away. That was his answer, and Mycroft was not happy about it.

The elder Holmes brother waved his hand at the younger until Sherlock finally, with a grand sigh, looked at his brother. 'For God's sake, Sherlock, you are in Buckingham Palace! You're embarrassing me.'

'Well I seem to be rather good at that,' Sherlock signed, angrily, fingers snapping together loudly in the quiet room.

Before long, after nearly disrobing Sherlock, Mycroft got his younger brother to conceded to at least dressing and hearing them out. It was a blackmail case, a woman, Dominatrix by profession, and good at what she did. Mycroft explained how she had been involved in political scandal, and the power she could have over people.

'Whatever she wants, pay her,' Sherlock said, tossing the photos back on the table. 'She's won, you've lost.'

'She doesn't want money,' Mycroft signed slowly, saying it aloud for the benefit of his hearing companion.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised and his gaze snapped back up at his brother. 'A power play. Interesting.'

John felt a sudden pang of jealousy, out of nowhere, when he saw how suddenly interested Sherlock was in the case. The taller man had stood up, declared that they would take the case, dragging John along with a wide, sweeping promise that they would have the photos by the end of a few hours.

John took the phone call from Mycroft into the living room, where he could still see clothes in Sherlock's room fly across the floor every so often as he rummaged around for his disguise. "Hello, Mycroft, we're working on it, but you know it's going to take him at least a few minutes to formulate a plan."

"I'm not calling because of the plan, John," Mycroft said. "I'm calling you now because I'm concerned."

"Yes, I know, you're always concerned about your brother," John said tiredly, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "He's fine, he's rather amped up about this case, truth be told."

"I didn't mean about him, Dr Watson," Mycroft said slowly, causing John to freeze mid-step. "I'm concerned for you. You're a subtle man, John, and any layman would be fooled, but I, however, possess a certain level of my brother's deductive reasoning..."

"Some of?" John asked, half-amused, and also completely terrified at what Mycroft was talking about.

"Unlike my brother, I do possess some measure of humility in regards to our abilities. Despite that, John, at least to me, your infatuation with my brother is quite obvious. Now, given your circumstances and background, it's perfectly reasonable that you would develop certain feelings for a person with my brother's particular set of skills and personality. I like you, John, and to be frank I would prefer to see you put focus on a more attainable choice in life partner."

"Is this some sort of intervention or veiled threat?" John asked, his voice hard.

"Not at all. Your romantic life is of no consequence to me. I am, however, afraid that a conflict of interest might arise, and your feelings for him may cloud your judgment."

"I won't deny to you that I have feelings for Sherlock," John said, now just sounding tired and weary. "That would be a lie you could see straight through, and I won't insult your intelligence that way. I will, however, remind you that I have been nothing but professional with Sherlock, no matter how frustrating he can be, or how I might feel."

"I do understand that, Dr Watson. My brother trusts you more than anyone."

John paused and then said, "Why doesn't your brother speak to you, Mycroft? He speaks to nearly everyone, including me, even though he knows that sign language is my mother tongue."

"That's not a question for me, John. My brother hasn't spoken aloud to me since before he was in rehab."

John sighed. "Look, we both know that it's usually me keeping Sherlock focused and out of trouble, and I plan to keep it that way."

"As long as we are on the same page, John, I have all the confidence in the world in you. I count on you, almost as much as my brother does, to keep him grounded. He's been more human and less reckless since he met you, a trend I endevour to see continue. Should you need anything, Dr Watson, please don't hesitate to ask."

John rang off without a proper goodbye, and popped his head into Sherlock's bedroom to see him standing in front of a mirror, holding up two jackets. He turned to John for opinion and John nodded to the one in Sherlock's right hand.

'A Vicar?'

"I need something... trustworthy," he said as he jammed his arms into the coat and put the neck piece in his pocket. 'Who was on the phone?' he asked, switching to sign.

'Your brother, making sure we're on task.'

'Did you tell him to leave the work to the big boys and go have a cupcake?'

John snorted and shook his head. 'So what, exactly, is the plan?'

The plan, it seemed, was for John to punch Sherlock in the face a block from this Irene Adler's flat. John, who was surprised into hesitation by the idea for a bit too long, earned himself a fist in the jaw, which he returned with gusto.

Aching, the boys stood at Irene's door, both a little out of breath, John annoyed and unsure about this particular plan of his. If Irene was clever enough to get out of the things she did, and to get photographs of a royal family member, she was probably clever enough to see through this ruse. This was, John knew, Sherlock's biggest problem. He was too arrogant and too convinced that he was more clever than anyone else.

They were let in immediately and John was showed to a wash room where he offered to "fix up" Sherlock's wounds. He heard shuffling about, and voices, but he didn't think anything of it until he walked into the room to find a stark-naked woman standing over the man he loved, his neck piece clenched between her white teeth.

"I er... I seem to have missed something," John stuttered.

Sherlock's face was blank, but his hands were tense, John could see that straight away, and he had to concentrate hard not to drop the basin of water as he made his way to a seat. He watched the exchange between the two of them, pleased when Irene took his suggestion to put on some clothes, but less pleased when "those clothes" ended up being Sherlock's favourite coat.

She knew who they were, and that set the tone for the meeting. She couldn't take her eyes off Sherlock, and vice versa, which made John tense all over. She kept casting her eyes over at him, a small smirk on her lips, and when she said aloud, "Someone loves you," the words caressed him from head to toe.

John realised in this moment that if she wanted him, if she made a play for Sherlock Holmes, John was going to lose. But, there was the plan. The Game was on, and John was in the hallway setting off the smoke alarms. He hadn't expected it to end with a gun pressed to his head, and actually very nearly getting shot, but he certainly wasn't surprised by it.

He also expected to get out of the situation at the very last second, which they did, and when he was sent out to check for others, John knew it was a ploy to get him out of the room. When he found Sherlock lying on the floor, Irene hovering in the windowsill, John's face was hot, and he was consumed with worry.

"He's going to be fine," she said. "You can explain that to him when he's more lucid. Clever though, isn't he, guessing the code to the safe like that. I didn't realise he'd been paying that close attention."

"What do you mean?" John demanded.

"Shall I tell him?" she asked, leaning over. "Well he can't understand me at all, now can he?"

"Tell me what?" John demanded, staring at her, but taking Sherlock's pulse.

"What the code was to the safe," she said with a sly grin. She looked out the window and John heard sirens in the distance. "It was my measurements." She winked, and then she was gone. John ran to the window but there was no sign of her anywhere.

When the police arrived, they managed to get Sherlock into a police car, John declining a hospital since he knew Sherlock would not react well to waking up in a hospital room.

Sherlock wasn't making a lot of sense, in and out of consciousness, he babbled between speech and sign, nothing cohesive, but as John tucked him into his bed, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, clearly attempting to force his eyes open. "Don't go, please. Can't leave me. Never. Please."

John pushed Sherlock down back against the pillows, trying to be as soothing as possible, knowing Sherlock probably couldn't understand speech or sign. John tried to pull away, but it was only when Sherlock had gone completely unconscious that John was able to extract his arm and leave the room.

He left the door to the bedroom cracked and went straight for the kettle. He measured the tea as strong as he could stand, and leaned over the sink, fighting down a wave of nausea as he thought about the entire situation,

It brought him a little comfort that Sherlock still wanted him, but he couldn't shake the jealousy he felt when he remembered the look on Sherlock's face as Irene stood in front of him, naked. He couldn't shake knowing Sherlock had looked at her hard enough to assess her measurements.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked, ringing John about an hour after Sherlock had been put safely into his bed.

"Paramedics took a vial of blood to make sure whatever she gave him wasn't going to have lasting effects, especially neurological ones. We should have the results soon. Otherwise he's unconscious, and sleeping it off. Whatever it is."

Mycroft sighed. "And the photographs."

"I'm sure you can assume that after drugging your brother, punching him, and whipping him with a riding crop, she got away with the photographs. They seemed to have a... connection... of some sort, so it won't surprise me if she comes back."

"John, what I didn't mention to you or my brother before is that Irene Adler seems to have a rather obsessive fascination with Sherlock. We've intercepted messages containing photographs of him being sent to her, packages, mobile texts, things of that nature. In the few files we did seize from her laptop, Sherlock dominated most of them."

"That may have been prudent information," John said irritably, frustrated that Mycroft would have kept that from him. "You do realise that Sherlock tried to go in disguise, thinking she had never heard of him before."

"An unfortunate mistake on my part. We assumed Sherlock knew."

"Why would he know that some Dominatrix was obsessed with him?" John demanded, his voice tense and strained. "He doesn't exactly keep tabs on who is madly in love with him."

"Including you?" Mycroft asked.

"That's none of your bloody business," John bit. "I'll ring you if anything changes, or if, some how, he pulls some miracle and gets those photos. Good night, Mycroft," John said formally and rang off. He was irritated, jealous, tired, and frustrated. He half-suspected Mycroft of not telling Sherlock that Irene knew who he was, just to see him fail.

"John!" came the shout a moment later from the bedroom. "John!"

John went running. Sherlock was up, out of bed, stumbling around, looking for something. His eyes were half closed, so unable to ask him what he was doing, John simply grabbed his arm to steady him.

"Where is she?"

'Who?' John signed slowly.

'The Woman,' his hands signed sloppily.

'What woman?'

"The woman, woman!" he shouted, throwing John off of him. "Where is she?"

'She's gone,' John signed when Sherlock looked over at him. Sherlock squinted to see John's signs and then shook his head.

"She was here. She was... she was here!"

John pushed Sherlock back down to the bed and soothed him. Sherlock grabbed his hand tightly, pulling him close and nuzzling his face into the side of John's thigh. John's entire body heated, and he put his arm around Sherlock's back, soothing him.

"What happened?" he murmured. "How did I get here?" He looked up with bleary eyes at John.

'You were drugged by Irene, and we brought you here. You were talking, but you weren't talking a lot of sense.'

Sherlock murmured something that John didn't hear and was back to snoring. John eventually extracted himself from Sherlock and went back to the living room. He thought he heard Sherlock shuffling about a little while later, but it was quiet, and eventually John went to bed.

It was over breakfast that John first heard the noise. It was the buzzing first, of Sherlock's mobile, and then it was a sound. An obvious sound. A woman making the noise of pleasure. John stared at the mobile, openly shocked, and then looked at Sherlock.

'What was that? Did you know your mobile makes that noise?'

'What noise?' Sherlock asked.

'Your mobile is making a noise now. A... sort of... sex noise.'

Sherlock's cheeks pinked and his brows furrowed. 'I'm deaf, I obviously don't know if my mobile makes a noise when I get a text.'

John paused for a moment and then remembered something. 'Your mobile was in your coat pocket. The Woman took your coat.'

Sherlock wrapped both hands round his cup of coffee. "She brought it back, apparently, sometime in the middle of the night."

"With a gift, it seems," John muttered, his cheeks hot. He sighed and looked at Sherlock. Since the kiss that one night, there had been no attempt at personal contact between himself and Sherlock. John wanted to, so many times, but Sherlock was closed off to him, and John didn't know how to approach it.

Christmas arrived, the one day Sherlock had to be kind to everyone, without question. John was feeling lonely, more lonely than he had since he'd met Sherlock. Since the kiss there had been nothing between them, nothing casual or meaningful. They had gone on cases, solved them, John blogged, Sherlock complained. It was business as usual. Except for one thing; the texts. Seventy-six of them by Christmas night.

They were casual texts, 'hello, good morning, I'm hungry,' things of that nature, Sherlock never replied. In any other relationship, John would have taken that as a good sign, but not here, not with this Woman. Sherlock responded to every single text, even if it was inane. It was a compulsion of his.

John needed something more, he had stood by as faithful companion for long enough, and it was now or never. John had saved up all year and with Mycroft's contacts, had managed to acquire a mobile with a small camera on the front that read sign language. The camera was so delicate, so high tech, that it could pick up the most subtle of signs, and translate them into texts or into spoken language for the other person. It could also translate spoken words into text during the conversation so Sherlock could actually use his mobile like a phone instead of texting, or asking John to place the call for him.

It wasn't sentimental, though the rather expensive, deep purple scarf John had seen Sherlock eying earlier that month was a sentimental gift. But Sherlock wasn't really a sentimental person, and John was okay with that. He was okay with all of it, he just needed to know that there would be more.

He took great care in getting ready that night, choosing a rather thick, black jumper Sherlock had once mentioned he looked nice in, his finest trousers, and fixed his hair. He felt a bit girly in doing it, but tonight he was going to question Sherlock. He just had to know.

Greg Lestrade was there with his wife that evening, along with Molly from St Bart's morgue, Mrs Hudson, and Andrew, whom Sherlock insisted on inviting even though John had long-since called it off. John could hear Sherlock entertaining all with his violin, and John quickly piled up the gifts for everyone and went into the lounge where Sherlock was just finishing up.

"John," Lestrade said as John walked into the room, "you're looking nice this evening."

"Thank you," John said, blushing a little.

"He does, doesn't he?" Sherlock said, eying John. He then looked over at Andrew and smirked. "Date tonight, it seems."

"No Sherlock I-" John interrupted with his voice and sloppy one-handed signing.

Sherlock ignored him completely. "Black jumper, years old, but hardly worn because he knows it makes him look nice and he doesn't like the attention. Most expensive pair of slacks, bit fancy for a Christmas gathering, in my opinion. Hair done, not as much product, obviously trying to impress. And then there's the gifts. One for everyone here, though the one at the top has been given particular attention to, the rest are barely considered wrapped. But this one, took you hours, didn't it. Perfect creases, the tape barely noticeable. And look at the tag, store-bought, expensive." Sherlock snatched the gift while John stood there, humiliated, and read aloud, "Happy Christmas, I can only hope one of many for us. I hope you enjoy this gift, Sherlock..." Sherlock trailed off and fixed his eyes on John's beet-red face.

"My God, the things you say sometimes," John said, setting the presents down gingerly.

'John,' Sherlock signed, ignoring everyone in the room. 'Forgive me, I'm so sorry.' He reached out for John's arm, but John yanked back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I hope you enjoy your gift."

"I'll open it in private later."

The noise then, Irene Adler's moan, filled the room and everyone looked round. 'Text,' John signed to Sherlock. "Makes seventy-seven, now, doesn't it?"

'I didn't realise you were counting,' Sherlock's hands snapped back, and went to the table where he'd left his mobile.

Truth be told, the mobile phone was also a selfish gift, because John wanted just a day to stop hearing that noise, to forget Irene existed. The noise wasn't for Sherlock, the noise was to remind John that she'd gotten to him.

Sherlock, who was reading his text, went straight to his bedroom and John heard the door slam. With a sigh, John gave a sheepish smile to the party who had started to talk again, though it was a little tense.

"Can I have a word?" Lestrade asked John a few minutes later.

"Of course," John said and they moved to the window where it was a bit quieter.

"My wife says I shouldn't say anything, but I figure you're not making your feelings for Sherlock much of a secret, so I hope you don't mind if I offer you some unsolicited advice," he said carefully.

John swallowed and nodded. "I thought I was being clever at first, but Mycroft dissuaded me of that notion a while back."

"None of us care, in fact, we're all for it, to be honest. We've never seen Sherlock behave so... well... bloody human since we've known the git. He's still a pain in the arse to deal with, damn near impossible to reason with, but he's nice from time to time now, and a lot of us aren't scared we're going to find him on a murdering spree one day. But John, the thing is, I like you. You're a good guy, and you deserve a little better treatment than that."

"I know I do," John said. "I'd be pleased to say I'm just going to stop being in love with Sherlock Holmes now, but I can't."

"I'm not saying that, mate," Lestrade said and paused to take a drink of his whiskey. "What I'm saying is, maybe you should consider moving out. You're making a decent commission now from the doctor's office, and your fees on cases. We're not saying stop working together, because I can't imagine how impossible he would be if you just up and left him altogether, but maybe some space would be nice. I don't think he's capable of being with anyone, if you know what I mean."

John knew Lestrade was right, and it hurt. It damn near suffocated him, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't ever really be able to give him what he wanted. John cleared his throat and nodded. "I think you're right."

"JOHN!" came Sherlock's voice from the bedroom.

John sighed. "That's my cue. Be out in a bit, I'm really sorry for the awkwardness."

"No less awkward than last year," Lestrade said, tipping his glass to John.

He felt judged as he went into Sherlock's bedroom, but it didn't really matter. Sherlock was pacing the floor, and looked up at John quickly when he entered. 'I need to phone my brother.'

That was his way of asking John to interpret the conversation. John thought briefly about telling Sherlock about his gift, but decided to just dial Mycroft instead. It rang a few times before Mycroft's tired, half-drunk voice picked up.

"I do hope you have an interpreter with you and this isn't some drunken mistake."

"It's me," John said. "Sherlock's asked me to interpret this phone call."

"Happy Christmas, John," Mycroft said and John signed it. "I do hope this isn't some sort of new law they've passed where we have to give each other holiday phone calls now."

'You're going to find Irene Adler dead, Mycroft,' Sherlock signed with John speaking.

John felt his head swim with the surprise as he said it aloud and had to physically stop himself from entering the conversation.

"Is that some sort of threat?" Mycroft asked with little voice inflection.

Sherlock dove for the mobile and snatched it out of John's hands. When he spoke, his words were slurred and shaken. "You're going to find her dead tonight, Mycroft. You're going to find her body. Happy Christmas."

Sherlock rang off and threw the phone onto the bed. John tried to touch Sherlock's arm, but the taller man shrugged him off almost violently. John thought it best to leave the room and knew he still had to talk to Sherlock, but it needed to wait.

A few hours later a car arrived to pick up Sherlock from the flat. John opted to stay home, at Mycroft's request over a phone call as Sherlock was leaving. "Check his things. This is a danger night if it really is her body."

"If he takes a cigarette from you, then we'll know it's a danger night," John said as he went into Sherlock's room and started rummaging around for any sign of drugs. "I was going to tell him I'm moving out tonight."

"I suggest you drop that bomb on him at a later date," Mycroft advised.

"Noted," John said and then rang off. He found nothing of consequence in Sherlock's things, and eventually moved to the chair in the lounge to wait.

He received another call from Mycroft letting him know that Sherlock had identified the body, it was hers, and yes, he had taken the cigarette. "I won't let him out much for a while,"John promised.

Sherlock returned, heartbroken. He spent days saying nothing, playing his violin, watching the telly. In a week he ate four meals total, though he drank endless cups of coffee and slept a total of six hours. John went on holiday from work to keep an eye on his friend.

He was worried when Anthea picked him up on the side of the road, happy to talk to Mycroft, but inside the building, he was met with a surprise.

"I need your help," Irene said to him, standing there in her thin black skirt, her hair done just so, makeup perfect. "Sherlock has something and I need it back."

"You have to tell him you're alive," John said.

"So he mourned me, then?" Irene asked.

"Tell him," John said by way of response.

"I'm afraid I can't do that. It's complicated, Dr Watson, I don't expect you to understand."

"You texted him seventy-seven times, and you can't tell him you're alive."

"He never responded. Most men can't resist my flirting."

John sighed and rubbed his face. "You flirted with Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple," he said, skirting the question.

She laughed and shook her head. "Of course you are. He'll never be anything without you, John Watson." She pulled out her mobile and spoke as she texted, "I'm alive, let's have dinner. There, are you happy?"

John would have answered except Irene's pleasure- filled moan sounded through the room. John dashed down the hall and saw the coat tails of Sherlock's trench as he left the building. John hesitated but eventually followed him.

Sherlock wouldn't speak of her, but suddenly he was well again. He ate, he slept a little, he worked. John hurt more than ever, and he knew then that he was ready to just go. He nearly told Sherlock until they came home one day and found Irene sleeping in his bed.

John kept to the background, watching the two of them intertwine with each other, verbally, almost physically, but not quite. He told them to name their child after him, and he felt his heart nearly burst into a thousand pieces when Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as though he considered the idea of letting Irene have his child.

John was blessedly absent for the near miss when Irene and Sherlock almost became physical, though he'd heard about it later. He was with Andrew at the time, not sleeping with him, just talking, and crying a little.

Sherlock had solved the case by the time John got back to the flat. Irene was gone, Sherlock was sitting at the table, and in front of him was the Christmas gift from John he hadn't opened until now.

'I hadn't realised this went unopened,' he signed as John came in.

John hung his coat and scarf and shrugged. 'I figured you'd open it when you felt like it.'

'It was rude of me. Forgive me.'

'Nothing to forgive,' John said. He put the kettle on and sat across from Sherlock. 'Do you love her?'

Sherlock frowned, and seemed to consider this. 'I don't think so. She loves me, I know that.'

"How do you know?" John asked aloud, his hands trembling too much to sign right then.

Sherlock reached across the table slowly, taking John's wrist into his hand, leaving his grip loose enough for John to pull away should he want to. Sherlock then leaned across the table, coming as close to John as he could manage. "Do you love me, John?"

"You know I do," John said miserably. "Painfully, achingly, yes."

"I could feel it in her pulse, in the dilation of her pupils... just as I can in yours," Sherlock said and dropped John's wrist.

'I need to move out,' John signed after a moment.

Sherlock's face went instantly unreadable and he stared at John for a long time. 'Why?'

John got up and walked round the table, kneeling in front of the detective. He took Sherlock's wrist into his hand, fingers feeling the steady pulse, and looked into his eyes. "Do you love me?"

The pulse remained steady. John wanted to cry, but before he could, Sherlock kissed him. He kissed him hard, his free arm wrapping round his back, crushing him to him. It was a clash of teeth and tongue and John could smell Sherlock's hair and skin as he clung to the man.

Then, amongst all of that, John felt it. Sherlock's pulse was racing, thumping hard against his fingers. John pulled back and saw the blue eyes thin, the pupils large and Sherlock's breath was hitched. By God, Sherlock loved him. John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's, holding him tightly, just sitting there, existing in that moment. He barely heard Sherlock's words when the detective finally spoke, ages later.

"I can't let you go, John. I need you, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you before."


End file.
